Trinder was about to say something else when the phone on her desk rang. ‘I did ask not to be disturbed, so this has got to be important – excuse me.’ She picked up the phone and listened for a moment. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Put him through.’ She mouthed the words ‘Home Office minister’ at Bolt then made a hand gesture to indicate that the meeting was over.
Bolt got up from his seat as the minister came on the line. It was clear from the conversation that he was after an update on the Kalaman murder and the related search for Ray Mason.
But, as Bolt paused at the door, he picked up something in Trinder’s conversation that made him frown momentarily. It was her telling the minister that the NCA had decided for the time being not to put any surveillance on Tina Boyd. It seemed odd to Bolt that the minister would want that level of operational detail. He’d probably have thought about it some more if it hadn’t been for the fact that as soon as he walked back into the incident room, it was clear something had changed.
Mo Khan was walking towards him, a big grin on his face. ‘We’ve got a lead. A kid who works in an illegal counterfeiting operation in Hounslow called in. He saw the new-look Ray Mason on the news and said he was there yesterday looking for a passport. Apparently they’ve done one for him and he’s coming in at six to pick it up. The kid wants immunity from prosecution and the fifty thousand reward.’
‘Tell him he can have both,’ said Bolt with a grin, hoping they could wrap this up quickly. ‘Scramble the locals. I’m going to get over there now.’
22
George Bannister sat in the study of his constituency home, knowing he was completely in hock to a murderer. He more than anyone else knew what Alastair Sheridan was capable of, but there was nothing he could do to stop him. The problem was, there never had been.
He and Alastair had known each other since their days at public school. Alastair had always been the handsome and exciting kid, the one with an edge, the one everyone wanted to be friends with. But he didn’t give out his friendship easily, and Bannister, who was clever, ambitious, but definitely not one of the cool kids, would ordinarily never have got a look-in. But for some reason Alastair had warmed to him, and even though Bannister had never been fully accepted into his social circle, they’d got on and Bannister had looked up to him.
They’d both gone to different universities – Alastair to Warwick, Bannister to Oxford, where he’d studied PPE – but they’d remained in periodic contact throughout that time, and when Bannister had graduated with a First, Alastair had been one of the first people to ring and congratulate him.
That was the thing about Alastair. He knew how to make people feel valuable. At the time, Bannister had naively thought it a commendable trait of his. He knew a lot better now.
In those days Bannister had truly been going places, having found his niche at Oxford and built up a cadre of excellent contacts and friendships among the sons of the country’s wealthy political elite. He also had a job to go to as a strategist and speech writer for the governing party – his first step on a route that he knew would move him towards a senior role in government. He hadn’t needed Alastair any more, yet something always drew him back to his old friend and schoolmate, and when Alastair had suggested that the two of them go travelling in August and September before they started their proper jobs, he’d agreed immediately.
It was 1990, a time when backpacking was taking off among the nation’s middle class, and, although he tried not to admit it to himself, Bannister was hugely chuffed that Alastair had chosen him as a travelling companion rather than someone else from his wide circle of friends.
At first it all went well. They travelled to Ko Samui in Thailand, then an unspoiled tropical island with just beach huts for accommodation. From there they went up into the hill country of Chiang Mai, which they made their base for a lazy week which encompassed riding on elephants and smoking a lot of dope. One day they hired a driver to take them right up into the so-called Golden Triangle, close to the Burmese border. It was here that Alastair had persuaded Bannister to try smoking opium. He’d been reluctant at first. He knew as well as anyone how addictive it could be. But Alastair was persuasive, and out there in the jungle with no witnesses, it suddenly didn’t seem such a bad idea. So he smoked some, and loved it. He swore to himself he’d never do it again but he remembered feeling very grown up, worldly-wise and adventurous for breaking a societal taboo, and it would always be a secret between him and Alastair.
It was when they got to the Philippines that it all went wrong. Alastair wanted them both to break other taboos. Bannister was realistic enough to know that he wasn’t a good-looking young man, nor was he especially successful with women (although he wasn’t a complete failure either), but it had never occurred to him to use the services of a prostitute until Alastair had suggested it. Bannister had asked Alastair why he wanted to when it was quite obvious he was already successful with women: by that point he’d slept with seven on their trip, while Bannister had managed a drunken fumble with one. He’d always remembered Alastair’s answer: ‘Because you can do whatever you fucking well want to them. Especially in a place like this where they’re dirt poor.’
Bannister had found this distasteful, but not entirely
